


Feel Your Pulse in the Pages

by sigh_no_more



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (mostly), Canon Compliant, Canon Era, F/M, Gen, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:33:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigh_no_more/pseuds/sigh_no_more
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2015: Grantaire moves to Paris with his new wife. For once, he is happy, renovating their new home, reading about Paris's history, and exploring the dark catacombs. Everything is fine until one night, he finds himself mysteriously transported to....</p><p>1827: Grantaire is swept up in a group of revolutionaries, in a violent time he doesn't understand. He just wants to get home to his wife, before he becomes too attached to his new friends who he knows are doomed. Or before, worse still, he fall in love with one of them. </p><p>(Inspired by TV's Outlander)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Present

“What do you think?”

Grantaire blinked at the building in front of him. “Uh…”

Floreal poked him in the ribs. “You can muster up a little more enthusiasm than that.”

“Wow, look at that building. Magnificent!” Grantaire exclaimed.

He was rewarded with a kiss for his efforts. “There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Grantaire just hummed. He always preferred his cities a little rough and edgy. Their new home in Paris was neither of those things. It was beautiful and old, and perfect for someone who wasn’t Grantaire. But it meant the world to Floreal, and Floreal meant the world to him, and now he was moving in.

The house and all that came with it had been Floreal’s dream since she and Grantaire were children growing up in the South of France. She had inherited it from her grandmother when she was a girl and had grown up dreaming of turning the property into an inn. Her grandmother had already transformed her family’s country estate into such a place. Floreal grew up at that inn, and so did Grantaire, his parents having been hired to manage and run it as Floreal’s grandmother got older. Now that her grandmother had passed away, and now that she and Grantaire were done with college and had scrimped together some savings, it was time for her to finally move into her dream home in Paris. And Grantaire was moving in with her.

“Ahem.” Floreal raised her eyebrows expectantly at Grantaire.

“Aren’t you tired of doing this?”

“Never.”

“That’s because you aren’t the one doing the lifting.”

“Do you want me to carry you?”

“And wound my masculine pride? You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would dare especially if it would wound your masculine pride,” Floreal said, reaching for Grantaire.

Before she could get him, he scooped her up and carried her over the threshold, giving her a little bounce, making her laugh. “Welcome home, wife.”

“Thank you, husband.” Floreal beamed.

Grantaire set her down gently and closed the door of 55 Rue Plumet.

____

 

They had a system: Floreal unpacked and slowly made their house a home. Grantaire was their resident handy-man, fixing the many leaks and creaks in the building.

“How old is this place again?”

“Old,” Floreal said from the floor, where she was sorting through stacks of old papers.

“How old?”

“Well, Floreal said, finishing one stack of papers. “It was passed down through my family from my great, great, great, great grandparents, and I don’t think it was new when they lived here. You do the math.”

“You know I’m bad at math, so I’m going to guess….1000 years old.”

“Precisely,” Floreal said, not looking up from her papers.

Only when Grantaire plopped on the floor opposite her did she stop her sorting.

“I can’t help but think this is an unfair division of labor,” he said.

“In what way?”

“Well, I just regrouted the shower and am about to go fix the leak in the ceiling, and you’re sitting here reading.”

“Organizing.”

Grantaire pried the papers from her hand. “Researching?”

Floreal shrugged, caught. She smirked.

“Well then,” Grantaire said, rifling through the pages. His wife extended her hand expectantly, waiting for him to return her things. “Ah-ah. We both work, or neither of us do.”

“There is a lot of work to do,” Floreal said balefully, glancing around the room. Her eyes landed on the peeling, yellowed wallpaper.

“That there is.”

Floreal studied him for a minute, the struggle clear on her face. She wasn’t lying when she said there was a lot of work to do. Their first priority was making the apartment on the top floor habitable so they could sleep without fear of the ceiling caving in. Once that was done, they could focus on the lower levels, which would be transformed into a gorgeous guest space, with a huge dining room, several lounges, and about a dozen guest bedrooms and bathrooms. They just had to get to work.

But there was also Floreal’s pet project: the book she wanted to write about her family. In addition to leaving behind the lucrative Parisian property (and the one in the country), Floreal’s great, great, great, great grandparents also left behind a wealth of personal effects, including books, art, and a diary kept by her ancestor himself. Floreal read that journal and fell in love with the stories her great, great, great, great grandfather wrote down.

Grantaire glanced at her, checking to see if she had come to a decision yet. Evidentially she had, because she jumped up to her feet. He quelled a feeling of disappointment. Lazy afternoons with Floreal were his favorite kind of afternoons. He braced himself to get up and join her, when music filled the room. Floreal strode back in with her phone, which was playing one of her more relaxing playlists, which she set down next to Grantaire. Then she pushed him back, back, back until he was rested against the wall. And only then did she rejoin him on the floor, lying down and resting her head on his lap.

“Read to me,” she commanded, handing Grantaire a photocopy of the diary.

“Bossy.”

“Yes. Now read to me.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes fondly. “Fine. What exciting adventures of Marius Pontmercy shall we read today? How about….” He riffled through the journal, the pages of which he knew well. “When he stopped those thugs from jumping the old man and his daughter?”

Floreal scrunched her nose. “No.”

“You don’t want adventure?”

“Read me what he wrote the day he first saw her.”

“Fine. But after that, we’re going back to thwarted robberies. And something more exciting than your nerd ancestor stalking your great grandma, who by the way, sounds way out of his league. Maybe we can read the bits about the rebellion.”

“No!” Floreal clutched his shirt. “I don’t want to hear about the barricades.”

“You’ve read those parts before.”

“Yes, but it’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining. I don’t want to read about those poor boys. Not today.”

“Those idiots you mean,” Grantaire said. He flipped through his papers to find the pages she wanted. “Fine. We’ll read about Baron Marius Pontmercy: Stalker Extraordinaire.”

____

 

The next day, they decided to tackle the attic together. In it were stowed generations and generations of family heirlooms and--

“Junk. This is all junk,” Grantaire said blowing dust off a frankly creepy doll.

“Oh really?” Floreal said, pulling a sheet off a shelf and revealing two large, silver candlesticks.

“Those real?” Grantaire asked.

“Maybe,” Floreal said, examining them.

“Well, if that’s not real silver, they’re boring.”

“This isn’t supposed to be fun, R. This is serious work.”

He wrapped his arms around his waist. “You’re right.”

“Thank you.”

“Whoever finds the weirdest thing wins and the loser buys them dinner.”

Floreal shoved Grantaire off her with a laugh and immediately raced to the opposite corner of the room. “Found a one armed-headless doll.”

“You’ll have to go better than that. I just found this fucking awesome walking cane,” Grantaire said holding it up. Floreal stuck her tongue out at him, and resume her search.

It took about three hours for them to go through everything in the attic, and they shouted out their findings, which were impressive. But Grantaire’s favorite find happened at the very end, in the last corner. He cleared a large stack of books, some photo albums and some old needlework samples off what he thought was a coffee table. But once he was able to rip off the white sheet over it, he saw that in fact, it was a large wooden trunk, with the letter R engraved in the side.

“Jackpot!”

Floreal raced over to his side, and together, they started to dig through the trunk. In it was a completely random assortment of objects. There was a hand-drawn notebook with moths and other insects. It was blank towards the end, incomplete. It rested on top of box of knickknacks: unusually shaped rocks, and pages decoding hieroglyphics and theatre tickets for June 15th, 1832.

There was a book of Latin and Italian poems, with dried flowers pressed in the front cover. There were beautiful, fragile paper fans. There was a pair of truly impressive top hats. Well-worn boxing gloves. A law book, with some actually hilarious comments written in the columns (as well as several rather unflattering doodles of a man named Blondeau). There was a medical bag with a stethoscope, plenty of clean handkerchiefs, a mirror, and a pamphlet explaining the dangers of electric currents to the human body. And finally, carefully wrapped up and preserved were sheaf after sheaf of parchment. Speeches, it turned out, upon closer inspection. Some were complete, others were filled with editing notes. They all started out with neat handwriting, but as the writer became more impassioned, the handwriting became looser, and sloppier, like the author couldn’t be bothered with penmanship once his ideas started flowing.

“I think I won,” Grantaire grinned at Floreal. “This is a pretty weird assortment of stuff.”

“You won,” Floreal confirmed. “Now let’s go get dinner.”

____

 

It wasn’t all just sunny afternoons, reading and laughing on the floor in each other’s company, or sifting through family oddities. They did actually have to do work. Grantaire focused on manual work: painting, mending hinges on the windows and doors, fixing the floor, and the million other little repairs needed in the old house. Floreal handled the more managerial tasks, filling out legal forms, finding vendors for the inn, and assuming all financial responsibilities. Their divide and conquer method meant they were making a lot of headway. The downside was it also meant they were usually too busy to see much of each other.

Worse still, Floreal ran into an old friend of hers from school: Phillippe. Grantaire had never liked Phillippe. Phillippe had been smug, and was always flirting with Floreal, even after she and Grantaire started dating. And now to add another reason to why Grantaire didn’t like him: Phillippe was an investment banker. And rich. And very interested in seeing Floreal again, so he could “invest in her new business”.

Sometimes, Grantaire was dragged along to dinner with them, or their business lunches, and to be fair with Phillipe, he did have some good suggestions on how to run a new inn (the bastard). But in between sound business advice, Grantaire had to suffer through Phillipe’s monologuing the exciting places he had travelled, or the cool people he met. Worse, Phillipe was keen to introduce Floreal to all his friends at the elite echelons of Parisian society, and sometimes Grantaire was dragged along.

Other times, Grantaire would beg off, saying he was tired after spending the day renovating, and Floreal would go by herself. This was a different kind of misery than having to plaster a fake smile on his face and laugh at high society jokes. Because after a long day at work, Grantaire really just wanted to spend time with his wife. He was very choosy about the company he kept. A lifetime of bad friends with a handful of asshole relatives made sure of that. But just because Grantaire would rather alone than spend time with a bunch of fake people didn’t mean Floreal should be denied her fun. And although it was obvious Phillipe was head over heels with Floreal, Grantaire didn’t feel threatened. He trusted Floreal.

None of that cured the complete and utter boredom he felt on nights like tonight when it was still only early evening, and Grantaire was already at a loss of what to do. He sat in the big armchair by the fireplace, absent mindedly flipping through the notes and books Floreal left scattered about. He had spent so many bored evenings flipping through them that he sometimes thought he must know them as well as she did. He might even know some of them better than her. While she was obsessed with reading about the adventures Marius had in his youth, Grantaire loved pouring over the historic maps and reading the background information Floreal had gathered.

He didn’t like reading about Marius or his friends. At first, he had been swept up in the epicness of it: the romance, the bravery, the action. But as time went on, Grantaire felt unease when he read those parts. It was more than unease. It was….he felt dread. But why he should feel that over long-dead men was beyond him. It made him uncomfortable, so he avoided it all together.

Reading the maps again wasn’t a sufficient distraction while he waited for Floreal. Not for tonight, at least. Tonight he wanted to walk through history, not just read about it. Tonight, he was going to explore the catacombs.

The catacombs had always held a certain fascination with Grantaire. Even as a boy, he loved reading about the seemingly endless dark passageways deep underground. What kind of horrible secrets lurked below? Child Grantaire wrote stories about them and scared Floreal with them. She told him he was mean. Adult Grantaire decided to explore the catacombs and pissed Floreal off. She told him he was a reckless idiot.

It was true, the catacombs weren’t for the faint hearted. Or law abiding, as it turned out, since exploring on your own was illegal. But since Grantaire hadn’t been caught yet, he wasn’t terribly concerned about it. (That was the point of the conversation with Floreal that she got so exasperated that she stormed out).

Grantaire found this awfully unfair. After all, he was as careful as he could be. And what was life without a little adventure? He could just easily die crossing the street and getting hit by a stray car as he could exploring the underground Paris. So once he was sure Floreal was gone, and hadn’t forgotten anything, he grabbed his kit, and headed out.

For some reason, he found it peaceful down below. It had started out with him just wanting to see if _could_ find an entrance. Once he found it, he promised himself he would take just a quick peek. A quick peek turned into an hour, and that hour turned into many.

Grantaire followed the map he had sketched out. Although the catacombs were becoming more familiar, he didn’t trust just his eyes and memory. He knew men got lost and died down there before. He didn’t intend to join their ranks. Eventually, he reached the end of what he knew, and so he could either be satisfied, or keep exploring.

He took a few steps forward, then took a left. It took him less than five minutes to regret that decision. He found himself in large, cavernous chamber whose walls were lined with skulls. Grantaire cursed and dropped his flashlight, which turned dead as soon as it hit the ground. His breathing quickened. The air suddenly seemed much colder. There was a buzzing sound that suddenly seemed to fill the room.

“Hello?” Grantaire called out. It almost sounded like something electric. Maybe he had stumbled on a lost film crew or something who were trying to shoot the catacombs?

For a second, the buzzing continued before stopping abruptly. Then he heard it: whispers. Hundreds and hundreds of whispers. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but that was beside the point. He was in an underground tomb, and someone was whispering.

“Oh, fuck this.” Grantaire said, backing away as quickly as he could. As soon as the cavern was out of sight, he turned around and all but fled the catacombs, not stopping until he was aboveground. Once he was back home, he locked the door, turned on all the lights, dove into bed, and wrapped himself up with all their blankets, peeping out, hoping that whatever he had heard down there hadn’t followed him home.

____

 

The next morning, he felt foolish. He woke up with the sunlight streaming in, and Floreal wrapped around him. He was embarrassed. For once he was glad Floreal refused to go catacombing with him. She would have laughed at him for being ridiculous. Now in the light of day, it was so obvious that someone must have rigged up a sound system in the cavern. That was the buzzing he heard- electricity. Some asshole must have thought it was funny to put a whispering track in the skull room. And okay, now that Grantaire was no longer scared out of his mind, he could see the humor in the situation.

Still, it weighed on his mind all day, as he sanded down the new kitchen cabinets. And as he painted the walls to the sitting room. He was never one for the supernatural, and so he was doubly embarrassed about his behavior last night. He had just felt so sure that he wasn’t alone last night, that there was some force beyond his understanding in that room with him. Complete bullshit.

He had to go back, to prove to himself he wasn’t the kind of person who ran from the dark. He would go down there, and figure out how the room was set up, and maybe find a way to get back at the pranksters who orchestrated the whole thing.

For once, he didn’t wait for Floreal to leave before getting ready. He wanted to go and resolve this thing, because maybe there was a small part of him that was still scared. There was a small part of him had sensed something dark and powerful in that room and he couldn’t quite shake it. The sooner he got there and could prove to himself the night before had been an overreaction, the sooner things could return to normal.

“I’m off,” he said to Floreal, who was still getting ready for a night out with Phillippe and a few of his friends. They were going to a museum opening or something like that.

“And where are you off to?” Floreal asked. She looked beautiful, in a little black dress with her hair pulled back in a bun. There was something effortlessly chic about her. Grantaire never understood why she chose to be with him.

He shrugged. “Out.”

Floreal crossed the room and examined Grantaire’s outfit, from tight black jeans to his baggy black t-shirt and hoodie. “Are you trying to dress like a ninja?” she asked finally.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Ninjas didn’t wear black, that’s a common misconception.”

“So you’re not wearing this ridiculous getup so you can sneak back in the catacombs?”

“I would never!”

Floreal stared him in the eye as she reached around and picked out of his back pocket a flashlight, then patted his hoodie, under which he had wrapped a good amount of rope around his torso. She raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, so I might have been considering it.”

She sighed and turned away from Grantaire, and walked over to the dresser.

“Look, I’m sorry, Floreal. If it bothers you, I won’t go.”

“Here,” she said. She returned to him and handed him his pocket knife.

He took it. “Really?”

She kissed his cheek. “I’m about to go have my fun, you go have yours.” She paused. “I am sorry, you know. That we haven’t spent much time together lately.”

And she looked it. Which was ridiculous. “Floreal, I didn’t _want_ to go with you. You asked, and I said no.”

“Still…”

“We’ve known each other for how long now?”

“Twenty years or so?”

“Right. Since we were kids. We’ve always had different interests, and we’ve always ended up here.” He clenched her hand. “You go, make new friends. And business contacts, if you can. Because we need help with the inn.”

“I’m already on it. I’ve made a lot of great contacts, the renovations are ahead of schedule...We should go on a trip somewhere. Soon.”

Grantaire pulled her close and kissed her properly. “I have the coolest wife.”

“Damn straight. Now let me go so I can finish getting ready.”

He watched her go fondly. He was lucky- he hadn’t just married someone he loved - he had married his best friend. Everything about their relationship was safe and comfortable. It was easy being married to Floreal.

“It’s summer solstice, you know,” Grantaire said.

She just hummed an acknowledgement.

“Longest day of the year.”

“Your point?”

“Don’t use those extra hours to stay out too late,” he told her.

“Why’s that?” she grinned.

“Well, like you said, you’re going to have your fun. I’m going to have my fun. Maybe later we can have some fun together.”

Floreal rolled her eyes. “You’re so cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“God help me, I do.” Floreal stole one more kiss. “Now I really have to go, or I’ll be late. See you later.”

“See you later,” Grantaire echoed.

____

 

It took him longer than expected to get back to the spot he went to the previous day. It was his own fault for not marking it. The next time he was terrified out of his mind, he would have to make an effort to be a little bit calmer.

Eventually he did find the room. He heard the buzzing sound from the hallway, and followed it. He repressed a shudder. No. No, this room had scared him once, but now he was being level headed about it.

He stepped into the room, the whispering started again.

“Motion sensor audio,” Grantaire mumbled to himself.

He tried to ignore the whispering, because even though he knew there must be a sound system hidden in the room, hundreds of disembodied voices talking amongst themselves was downright unsettling. Then he heard it.

 _…..Grantaire_ …

Out of all the voices, one word was clear. His name.

He took a step forward, no longer afraid. Someone was guiding him. He followed the voice to the opposite wall, where there was an arch engraved in the stone. The other whispers fell silent, and the only voice left was the one saying his name.

…. _Grantaire…._

The air stilled, and time for a second seemed to stop.

He reached his hand out to touch the arch. Then there was darkness.

____

 

When he came to, he was lying on his back. His head was practically throbbing in pain. And there was a gun in his face.

“On your feet!” a man barked at him.

Grantaire scrambled to obey. Shit. Floreal was going to kill him. He promised he wasn’t going to get arrested for trespassing. “I can explain.”

“You will explain during interrogation,” the man said. “This area is restricted.”

“Yes, I get that, but the gun is a little excessive, don’t you think?”

Grantaire squinted. Gun and bayonet, apparently. What the fuck?

“No more talking. You will walk forward.”

Grantaire’s mind was racing. This guy wasn’t dressed like any police officers he had seen before, and his weaponry certainly wasn’t standard issue. So this guy was…what, an overzealous volunteer patroller? Had Grantaire stumbled across a really intense LARPer?

“Look, I think there’s been a misunderstanding-”

The man clipped Grantaire on the back of his head, then nudged him with the edge of his bayonet. It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but having the pointy blade poking the space between his shoulder blades wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Oi!”

Grantaire and the man looked, and saw two men standing in the doorway, one bald, the other small, waving cheerfully. The man snarled at them, and that was the opportunity Grantaire needed to wrestle his rifle away from him. The other two men rushed forward to help restrain the weaponless man.

“He’ll sound the alarm!” the bald one said.

“We can’t _kill_ him,” the small one said, scandalized.

“Of course not. We should have brought rope…”

Grantaire ended the argument by hitting the man over the head with his own weapon. He fell down, unconscious.

“There you go,” Grantaire said, discarding the gun. “Thanks. For the distraction.”

“Thank you, for…that,” the bald one nodded at the unconscious man.

For a second, the three young men all stood, staring at each other. Grantaire felt like he should say something to break the silence.

“There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a dude with a gun is one of them,” Was what he came up with. “So, the three of us…we’re good.”

“Well said!” The bald one clapped him on the back.

“Thanks,” Grantaire said. So they weren’t big _Harry Potter_ fans then, since that reference went way over their heads. Oh well. They still seemed decent enough.

“Come,” The small one said. “Help me search his pockets. He might have something of use.”

“Oh, we’re robbing people now?” Grantaire said. That was kind of a bonding exercise too. Friends that commit crime together stay together and all that.

He watched, fascinated as the men patted the soldier down. It was only now registering that they were all wearing period clothes of some kind. The fallen man wore some kind of military uniform, but a very dated one. And his new companions were both wearing cloth trousers, hats, shirts with billowy sleeves, and cravats.

“Are you….cosplayers or something?”

The bald one tilted his head. “Are we _what_?”

“Um….never mind.” Grantaire said. Maybe this was just how they dressed. If so, he certainly didn’t want to offend them. “It’s just…what era are those clothes from?”

“I could ask you the same,” the bald one said. “Our clothes are from the modern era.”

“O-kay,” Grantaire said. Maybe they were really dedicated historical reenactors. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“They aren’t the latest fashions, but these are suitable for any gentlemen in 1827.”

“1827,” Grantaire repeated with a laugh. “Okay, I can play along.”

The two men exchanged confused looks.

“We should go,” the small one said. “His comrades will search for him, and he did not have anything of value.”

“Well…good luck?” Grantaire said, scooping up his backpack.

They both stared at him. “You must come with us.”

“I don’t bloody well think so.”

“You said that we liked each other.” The bald one said, looking almost offended.

“Yeah, sure, I like you, but my path is that way.”

“There will be more National guardsmen that way. They’ll capture you for sure.”

Grantaire bit his lip. “I don’t know.” He stepped back into the main hallway and did a double take. The passage way he had come from was now blocked off by a wall of rocks. “That wasn’t there before….how long was I passed out?”

“It’s settled then,” the small one said. “You’re coming with us. I’m Joly, by the way, and this is Bossuet.”

“Grantaire.”

“Excellent. Now come along, Grantaire.”

He followed them, through the dark winding passages. He tried to memorize them, but they were going too fast for him to. They only slowed down when they reached the street surface again. Grantaire superfluously checked his phone to see if he had any missed messages or calls from Floreal. He didn’t, but that was probably because he didn’t have a signal either. Shit. He switched the phone off to conserve the battery.

“What were you doing down there, if I may ask?”

“Just exploring.”

“How daring! How brave!” Joly enthused.

“I think it was brave just to be in that room,” Bossuet said. None of them had any confusion as to which room he referenced. “That place always makes me uneasy. There is something unnatural about it.”

“I thought that was just me,” Grantaire said.

“They’re catacombs,” Joly said. “They are supposed to be unsettling.”

Grantaire squinted around. Something was wrong. He didn’t recognize this part of Paris. The streets were so different, so narrow and winding. These weren’t the wide boulevards he roamed just this morning. And where were all the streetlights? Why were the buildings so old? Just where had they emerged from?

“Wait, that’s the Musee Rodin!” Grantaire exclaimed pointing.

“The what?”

Grantaire ignored them. That was the Musee Rodin. He had dragged Floreal to go with him just this last weekend.

“My friend, you are mistaken, that’s the Hotel Biron.”

He wasn’t mistaken. He recognized the building and he turned around to tell Joly and Bossuet so, when he noticed something disturbing in the skyline.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The Eiffel Tower,” Grantaire said.

“The what?”

“The Eiffel Tower. You know, the giant metal landmark?”

“Of where?”

“Paris!” Grantaire exclaimed.

“Are you concussed?” Joly asked, looking very concerned. “That man did hit you rather hard over the head.”

“I’m not…no. What is wrong with you?” Grantaire stared at them. Why were they lying?

“Grantaire, my friend, I am sorry, but I haven’t the faintest idea of what you speak,” Bossuet said. He did look sincerely sorry.

Grantaire took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. They were at the Musee Rodin. If the Eiffel Tower were still there, he would be able to see it. It was possible that someone had blown up the Eiffel Tower, and the reason he couldn’t see it was because it was now a pile of rubble. But they would have felt an explosion of that size. So the only other explanation he could think of was that the Eiffel Tower hadn’t been built yet. Which meant…

“I think I’m going to pass out,” Grantaire said.

“See! You see? I told you,” Joly said, rushing forward to guide Grantaire to a curbside.

Grantaire let someone else be responsible for his motor functions for a minute, because the truth was sinking in. It was impossible, and yet, what other explanation could there be? One or two of the odd things he had witnessed could be explained. But all together? This was not his Paris.

This was 1827. 1827, the era Floreal so romanticized. Of course if he was being sent back, he couldn’t be sent back somewhere cool, like Paris in the 20’s, or ancient Egypt, no, he had to be sent back to a city that was about to bleed.

Joly rubbed reassuring circles on his back, murmuring comforting things while Grantaire blinked back tears. He was very, very far from home, and Floreal was probably waiting for him. She would be worried. He did that. He made his wife worry.

“You should lie down,” Bossuet suggested.

Grantaire took a shuddering deep breath. He had to stay calm. He was going to get home, he just needed to stay calm and keep his head. It would be madness to try and find then navigate his way through the catacombs at this late hour, especially when he was already exhausted. He could spend one night in the past. He could do that. He would. Maybe when he woke up, he would find this was all just a terrible dream.

One night was not too long a time. And he would make it up to Floreal when he got back.

“This better not be some really fucked up reality show,” Grantaire muttered, rubbing his face. “Well, uh, thank you for…everything. But I should get going.”

“We’ll accompany you to your lodgings,” Joly said firmly. “You’re in no state to be roaming the streets of Paris alone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The look Joly gave him brokered no room for argument.

“I don’t actually have lodgings,” Grantaire said, shrugging. Maybe if he acted like it wasn’t a big deal, they wouldn’t react like it was.

“Nor I,” Bossuet said. “I am at the mercy of my friends’ more charitable impulses.”

“You’ve been living with me for a month. That isn’t impulsive,” Joly snorted. He turned to Grantaire. “You are more than welcome to join us until you find a place that suits you.”

He considered arguing, but then again, a safe place to sleep for the night did sound appealing. Better than sleeping on the street.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said. “I really appreciate it.”

Joly just beamed. He and Bossuet linked arms with Grantaire, and together the trio made their way through the streets. Until Grantaire stopped abruptly, because the wheels in his brain were still turning, and he came to another realization.

“Wait….Joly. Bossuet.”

“Yes?” Joly looked at him patiently.

 _Shit._ It wasn’t be a coincidence. He didn’t know how common the surnames Joly and Bossuet were in Paris in the early nineteenth century, but what were the odds that he should travel back decades in time and meet two men named Joly and Bossuet unless they were also Marius’s Joly and Bossuet. Which meant he could also theoretically meet his wife’s great, great, great, great grandfather in his youth.

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, resuming the walk. “The names just sounded familiar.”

Holy _shit._ He could find Marius. He could find this man whose life so influenced that of Grantaire and his wife.

“Perhaps you know some of our kin,” Bossuet mused before they fell into a comfortable silence. When they spoke again, they spoke of other things.

____

 

Grantaire barely slept. His mind was too busy screaming in protest at everything he had seen. The few hours of sleep he managed to get were not peaceful ones. He did not belong here, that much he knew. He had to get home.

When he woke from his fitful sleep, he found a clean set of clothes at the foot of the sofa where he had slept.

“Thought you might want some new clothing,” Joly said from his breakfast table, where he sat reading some large textbooks.

“What time is it?”

“Good point,” Joly said, speaking lowly. He cast a look at Bossuet, who was sprawled on his bed. “Look at him. Bless. I hate to wake him.”

But wake him Joly did, but roughly ripping the sheets off. He shrugged at Grantaire.

“It isn’t my first time waking him.”

Bossuet muttered rebelliously and rolled back over. Joly threw a pillow at him.

“I am awake, you monster.”

“Get dressed if you want breakfast.” Joly said, completely unsympathetic to Bossuet.

“Good morning, kind sir,” Bossuet said to Grantaire as he shuffled to get changed. “You would never so rudely wake a friend, would you?”

“Nor would he ever so rudely keep a hungry friend from breakfast,” Joly said pointedly. Bossuet stuck out his tongue, but did not stall any more.

“I can’t take these,” Grantaire said, gesturing to the clothes.

“You can’t very well walk around in those!” Joly said. “I’m sure they’re very fashionable where you are from, but Paris is a little more unforgiving. Trust me, we’ll attract less attention if you put those on.”

Joly looked so earnest and well meaning, so Grantaire changed. Besides, if he was really in the past, he didn’t want to attract attention with his modern clothes. Who knew what kind of trouble he might cause? By the time he was done (it took a while, figuring out all the layers and buttons), Bossuet was at least functional.

“Thank you,” Grantaire wasn’t sure what else there was to say to his strange hosts. “I should...get going.”

“Oh?” Joly looked disappointed. “But we only just met you. Surely you’ll accompany us to breakfast.”

“I don’t have any money,” Grantaire said truthfully. He doubted his credit cards would do him much good here.

Joly waved this aside. “You will repay me some other time.”

This hardly seemed a fair deal to Grantaire, since he was sure he wouldn’t. He couldn’t exactly mail Joly a check later. But on the other hand...when would he have a chance to eat breakfast in 1827 again? Surely him staying for one more meal wouldn’t delay his return _that_ much.

“If you insist.”

Joly let out a delighted squeal, before jamming a hat on Grantaire’s head and ushering him out the door. As soon as they reached the pavement, Grantaire wrinkled his nose. People always complained about how stinky Paris was, but 2015 Paris had nothing on 1827 Paris. When he got back, Grantaire was going to send the sanitation department so many flowers.

“Are you unwell?” Bossuet asked.

“It’s just the air is...unpleasant,” Grantaire said. The sun was quickly heating up the pavement and the result made him want to gag a little.

Both Joly and Bossuet laughed. “Ah. You are still acclimating to Paris?” Bossuet said.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Grantaire said, covering his nose, which just made both of them laugh harder.

“Did you just arrive?”

“Yeah.”

“From where?”

“South,” Grantaire said vaguely.

“A man of mystery!” Bossuet said, not at all put off by Grantaire’s taciturn nature.

At breakfast, he found that he did genuinely enjoy Joly and Bossuet’s company. They were a bit eccentric, but then again, so was he. He was actually a little sad to be leaving him.

“I think I should get going.”

“Always in a rush,” Bossuet huffed.

“No, it’s just….I dropped something last night. In the catacombs. I want to go get it. It was a list of flats,” Grantaire said, casting around wildly. “My mother wrote to her contacts in Paris, asking if they might know of any potential places I could lodge. And obviously, I need a place to live…”

“But you can’t!” Joly said.

“Really, I would love to stay-”

“Of course you’d love to stay, we’re excellent company. But that’s not what I was going to say. What I was _going_ to say was that the National Guard have begun patrolling the catacombs.”

“Why?”

“To make sure no one did exactly what we tried to do last night.”

“Which was?”

Joly and Bossuet both suddenly seemed very interested in their empty breakfast dishes.

“ _Which was_?”

“Stealingweaponsfromtheirarmory.”

“ _What?”_

“Shhh!” Joly hissed.

“We were going to steal some small weapons from their armory. We thought it would be amusing.”

 _And you’re fucking revolutionaries and need weapons so you can try and overthrow the government._ Grantaire wanted to shout. But he supposed he could understand why they wouldn’t tell him, a stranger that, since they were basically committing treason.

“So they’re patrolling…I can sneak in.”

“The area we found you in is right under their headquarters.” Joly said, looking shocked Grantaire didn’t know that.

“And after last night….they probably have a permanent guard at hand. You would be caught and arrested.”

Grantaire’s heart sank. He had to get back, but he couldn’t very well do that if he was shot by a National Guardsman, or arrested. He would have to be patient. Bid his time, search the catacombs while simultaneously avoiding detection. He would have to be careful. He was very bad at being careful.

He tried to calm himself. This was just….a weird experience. Surely it would only take a few weeks to get back home. And then he could laugh all of this off like it was a dream.

Joly squeezed his hand. “I know you want to get back. You want to find your mother’s list.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Grantaire lied. “Yes, the list. Which will help me find a place to live. You sure you won’t help?”

“We are helping you by telling you not to back,” Bossuet said. “Look, from time to time, we or other friends of ours have reason to use the catacombs to get around the city. We can look for your list when we are down there again, or perhaps even bring you with us.”

That was probably the best Grantaire could get. After all, he had only a limited knowledge of the catacombs, and these men were his best chance at finding the area again. He would just have to lay low until he could get back.

“In the meantime,” Joly said. “You must stay with us, until you can find a suitable lodging.”

Grantaire felt a rush of gratitude towards his two new friends. Without them, he could probably be dead in the catacombs, or starving out on the street. “Thank you.”

____

 

This odd domestic arrangement continued for about a week, until one day over breakfast, Bossuet and Joly exchanged conspiratorial looks.

“Grantaire?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you any political opinions?”

“I have far too many political opinions.” Grantaire said, browsing the newspaper. Then he looked up suspiciously. “Why?”

Joly and Bossuet looked at each other, then nodded determinedly.

“We were wondering if you would be interested in coming with us to a meeting some of our friends are hosting. We’re a political club.”

“Oh.” Grantaire was surprised. Not that Joly and Bossuet were in a political club- that he already knew. He was surprised they were telling him about it, and thought he would actually be interested. Then again, what else did he have to do? There was no internet. “Sure, I can check it out.”

“Excellent,” Joly beamed. “We will tell you when our next meeting is.”

____

 

It turned out their idea of “telling” Grantaire was grabbing him when he returned from one of his walks and shoving him in a carriage before piling in themselves and saying “Time for the meeting!”

Joly chattered on cheerfully as he carriage trundled along. “I told Courfeyrac about you already, and he thought he might be able to find you work.”

“I don’t know Courfeyrac.”

Joly shrugged. “Still, he said he would find you work.”

Grantaire leaned back in his seat. He didn’t want to appear ungrateful, but getting a job would make his situation seem a lot more long-term than he intended. Still, he needed money. He couldn’t be a burden to Joly any more.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Courfeyrac, who you will meet tonight.”

“We’re here.” Bossuet said, peeking out the window. “Follow me.”

Grantaire did, with Joly trailing behind them. The sign above the door informed him they were in the Café Musain. They did not sit with the other patrons, but instead, went to a room in the back of the establishment.

 “Welcome!” Bossuet said with a flourish, pushing Grantaire forward.

He was in the center of a room filled with young men around his age who were all staring at him. Being thrust in front of people tended to have that effect.

“Hello,” Grantaire waved at the group. Because if he was good at anything, it was faking confidence. He glanced around. None of the men there were Marius. He quelled the twinge of disappointment he felt.

“This is the fellow that you found in the sewers?” asked one in the back.

“Sewer Man!” another one said, toasting Grantaire.

“Let’s not let that one stick,” Grantaire muttered.

“A trade,” said one of the men up front.

“A trade?”

“What should we call you, if not ‘Sewer Man’?”

“I’m Rene Grantaire. I go by Grantaire most of the time.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Grantaire. I’m Mathieu Combeferre, though I prefer my surname.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Pardon?” Combeferre said, frowning.

“Hmmm?” Grantaire said, adapting his best innocent face.

He was introduced to the rest of the group. It was easy to remember their names, since he was familiar with them already. It was just a matter of matching the names to the faces. Combeferre wasn’t as scary as Marius’s diary made him expect, but he was watching Grantaire closely. It made him feel like he was being examined. Okay, scratch that, Combeferre with his x-ray vision was exactly as scary as Marius’s diary made him expect.  

“I thought of a better moniker for you,” Combeferre said.

“Rene Grantaire isn’t good enough?”

“R,” Combeferre said. The room fell silent, like they were waiting for a reaction.

“R…it’s a pun,” Grantaire said slowly.

Apparently that was the reaction everyone was waiting for, because room erupted in laughter. Bahorel clapped Grantaire on the back.

“We are quite fond of puns,” Feuilly said wryly.

Grantaire forced a smile, but his heart was racing. R. R like the one in the trunk he and Floreal found in the attic. He shook it off. No. It was a coincidence. It was a letter of the alphabet. There were only 26 of them, for fuck’s sake. It was a coincidence that didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t going to stay here long enough to get an engraved trunk. He _was_ going to find a way back to Floreal. He would find a different passage through the catacombs. It was a setback, not a defeat.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the door swing open. It didn’t register until Courfeyrac leapt up from his side.

“Finally! There you are, come meet Grantaire.”

“I apologize for my tardiness.”

“Never mind all that.” Courfeyrac grabbed Grantaire’s shoulder and spun him around. “Grantaire, meet our fearless leader. This is Enjolras.”

 


	2. The Past

He was beautiful. There was no other word for Enjolras. _Beautiful_.

Grantaire was rendered speechless. It was one of those moments when you saw something so perfect that time seemed to stand still for just a second. Like a sunrise over the ocean. Or when the first snow blanketed a city, pure and untouched. Enjolras.  You had to stop and appreciate you were seeing something extraordinary.

“Enjolras, we have another revolutionary for your cause,” Courfeyrac said, slinging an arm around both their shoulders.

Grantaire forced himself to snap out of his daze. “I never said I was going to fight for your cause.”

Enjolras stiffened and looked at him suspiciously.

Grantaire shrugged. “I haven’t heard anyone speak about what your cause _is_. Why would I volunteer my services, and possibly my life when I don’t know what I’m fighting for? What sort of man volunteers such things just because his friends are doing it?”

“He makes a fair point,” Courfeyrac said to Enjolras, who still stared at Grantaire with his piercing blue eyes.

“What’s your name?” Enjolras asked.

“Grantaire.”

“Well, I hope we can convince you,” Enjolras said with a smile.

Courfeyrac released his friend, and Enjolras made his way to the front of the room. After making his apologies to his friends for his tardiness, he began to speak in earnest.

Grantaire understood why the Amis would follow Enjolras to their deaths. He was captivating. He was infectious. He was like a living piece of art. Grantaire listened to him, feeling like he was under a spell. Because he could see it, for just a second, this glittering future Enjolras spoke of. It was like a mirage, but how Grantaire wished it could take a more solid form.

Enjolras wasn't the only one speaking. He was simply guiding the meeting, getting input from his enthusiastic friends. But Grantaire barely heard their words. Only Enjolras's seemed to matter. He listened patiently to his friends, who were brimming with idealistic enthusiasm. But when Enjolras addressed their ideas, his responses seemed to elevate their ideas. Enjolras's words, his mere presence seemed to Grantaire to transform them from a group of drunken, idealistic students, into revolutionaries. Men of action.

When the meeting finished, Enjolras glanced at Grantaire, gauging his reaction. Grantaire merely nodded once at him. Unfortunately, Enjolras wasn't satisfied with this response, and headed over to follow up.

"Well?"

"You're a talented speaker," Grantaire said, raising his glass.

Enjolras brushed aside the compliment. "But what did you think of our goals? Our principles?"

"Your principles are noble and your goals worthy."

Still, this was not good enough for Enjolras, who must have heard the unsaid, "but" at the end of Grantaire's sentence. He just raised his eyebrows and waited for Grantaire to continue. So he did.

"Still, no matter how valid your aims or sincere your motivations, these are dreams men have dreamed throughout the ages. They're impossible. Society can't be fair and noble all the time. It goes against human nature.”

“Goes against human nature?” Enjolras repeated, looking more surprised than angry. Grantaire wondered how many of the Amis had ever contradicted him before.

“Well, yes. If you look at history, throughout human history, the one constant is misery and oppression. If goodness were innate, don’t you think things would have changed by now?”

Grantaire was suddenly aware that all the Amis had stilled in their conversations and were eavesdropping on him and Enjolras, who starting to puff up in anger.

“Do you think so little of your fellow man, that they do not care-“

“I’m not saying they don’t care. I’m saying they don’t care _enough_ to do anything.”

Now Enjolras looked furious. “How can you be so faithless in your peers, your fellow citizens, to not believe them capable of banding together and making positive change?”

“Again: history,” Grantaire said, taking a sip of wine. “On the whole, mankind is a cesspool of misery and selfishness. Now maybe a person is capable of goodness. But as a whole? Mankind is a disease.”

Enjolras looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, which might have been why Courfeyrac chose that moment to swoop in. “I need to borrow Grand R for a minute. I was helping him look for a job.”

“How kind of you,” Combeferre said, gently tugging Enjolras back to their table.

“You certainly know how to make an impression,” Courfeyrac said, chuckling as he sat down next to Grantaire.

“I stand by everything I said,” Grantaire shrugged.

“Well, if you continue to come to our meetings, I hope we can change your mind,” Courfeyrac said genially. “Now, about the job…”

It sounded perfect. Courfeyrac knew a student who served as an assistant to a humanities professor. The student’s mother had taken ill, and so now there was an opening. It didn’t sound like hard work- it was pretty much the 19th century version of being a TA. Grantaire figured the modest salary would sustain him. If he needed extra cash, he had a bunch of random skills he had collected throughout his life – fixing things around the house, cooking, playing instruments, boxing amongst other things – that he could peddle around Paris.

He wouldn’t be a rich man, but he didn’t especially care. He would be self-sufficient. It was nice, not having to worry about putting money away for savings or a retirement fund. (For a moment, Grantaire thought it was too bad the stock market hadn’t been invented yet, because if it were, he could invest and take care of him and Floreal for the rest of their lives.) Grantaire would have enough to live off, without having to rely on the charity of his friends, and that was the important thing.

After thanking Courfeyrac profusely, Grantaire got up to leave, in good spirits. He didn’t even let the scowl Enjolras aimed in his direction as he bade everyone goodnight bother him.

“So what did you think?” Joly asked. He and Bossuet had jumped up and insisted on walking Grantaire home.

“You have….interesting ideas,” Grantaire said. Why argue with them when he was about to leave and their fates were already laid out for them?

“You sound skeptical,” Joly said, leaning on Grantaire. “We’ll cure you of that.”

“You’ll try,” Grantaire smirked.

“And what did you think of everyone?”

“Your friends are nice.”

“Enjolras seemed to make an impression,” Joly said. It wasn’t teasing. It was….pride at his friend and leader.

Grantaire didn’t want to like Enjolras. He knew beneath that charming, angelic facade something darker lurked. Men who were willing to die for their causes often were willing to kill for their causes, and Grantaire knew Enjolras would do both.

And yet…there was optimism and sincerity in every word Enjolras uttered. He was intelligent, he was convicted, he was passionate. Grantaire was used to being surrounded by apathy about the situation of the world. Sure, he knew good people, but he never met anyone who was so convinced they could help people, help change things. And despite knowing the truth, for a second, Grantaire believed that Enjolras could do all the wonderful things he spoke of.

“Grantaire…” Bossuet nudged him. “You didn’t say what you thought of Enjolras.”

If Grantaire were being completely honest, he would say it was like meeting a lost Romantic hero. A man possessed with unearthly beauty. Rich. Severe in his pleasures (Grantaire could tell that after meeting the man for just an hour, and he had Marius’s journals as confirmation). Too noble for his own good. Charming. Doomed. But he couldn’t say that.

Instead he said truthfully, “They don’t make them like that anymore.”

Joly and Bossuet both let out a surprised laugh and left it at that. When they went to sleep that night, Grantaire was still wide awake, and hardly knew what to do with himself. He felt weighed down by what he knew. He couldn’t sleep. The present and the future (or was it the past?) were warring in his head.

He rummaged around Joly’s school supplies until he found a scrap sheet of paper. He would buy Joly some replacement, once he started his job. For now, he had to recount that first meeting with the Amis. He wanted to preserve it. He wanted to be able to tell Floreal about these students. She was so focused on Marius and Cosette, he imagined her reaction to learning more about those she had deemed supporting characters. They had lives independent of the narrative she tracked. Since he was here, Grantaire might as well write down what he saw.

He wasn’t a complete idiot. He had seen enough time travelling movies and TV shows to know he couldn’t outright write, “Wow, the past is insane, here’s all the weird shit I saw!” If his notes fell into the wrong hands, he could disrupt the space time continuum, or something like that. Not that Grantaire really thought himself important enough to have any effect on the space time continuum.  What was more likely was the wrong person might see his notes, assume he was delusional, and have him locked up.

Grantaire did not want to end up in a 19th century mental asylum.

So instead, he kept to the facts. The basic facts of who he met and who said what. He tried to write down the details- Bahorel’s waistcoat, Joly’s walking cane, Enjolras’s loosely tied cravat. When he went home, he didn’t want this to fade away into a dream, he wanted to remember everything.

And it helped quiet the whirring in his brain.

____

 

It was easy, after that, to integrate himself with these young men. He would accompany them to class- it was amazingly easy to slip into the large lectures, even if he weren’t actually enrolled at university. And it was actually terribly amusing to go to class. Some things like classics were the same. History was mostly the same, but here they were taught with an alarming bias that would never fly in 2015. Math was as always, incomprehensible to Grantaire. Science was hilarious. He stopped going to those lectures because he actually laughed out loud in one of the courses, pissing off the professor and offending Combeferre.

No one questioned what else he studied, not really. Combeferre had asked him once, trying to make small talk. Grantaire replied that he was studying history. Combeferre hadn’t questioned him further, but Grantaire caught him staring a few times throughout the night. He wore that peculiar expression he sometimes had that indicated he was trying to solve a difficult puzzle. It was unnerving. So when Jehan asked him next, he said “I’m a student of life” and laughed.

After that, everyone left it alone. Grantaire had managed to cultivate a mysterious persona within their group. He was the man who shared too much, yet nothing at all. No one knowing exactly what it was he studied was just Grantaire being Grantaire.

Grantaire being Grantaire. That seemed to be how the Amis dealt with Grantaire and his many oddities. His sudden appearance into their lives. His confusion over some pop culture. His use of the phrase “pop culture” and other strange language he used. But if the Amis could write it off as Grantaire being Grantaire, then they could accept this curious drunk into their fold.

Because that’s what he was slowly becoming. A drunk. Floreal would have hated it. Alcoholism was a demon that had long plagued his family. It was a demon he mostly evaded. Sure, he indulged in the odd drink once in a while, but it never got as bad as it could have. Mostly because of Floreal. They looked after each other, and she was determined to not let that particular demon claim him.

How disappointed she would be if she could see him now. Then again, perhaps she would have understood if she were with him. How else was he supposed to bear it day in and day out? He was walking amongst ghosts. Try as he might (and oh, how he tried to warn them), he couldn’t change the fact that in just a few short years, these bright, brave fools would be dead and gone. He understood how Cassandra in the Greek myths must have felt. He kept warning his friends. He tried to debate reasonably, he tried to make jokes, and sometimes, he just loudly interrupted them with his warnings. They never listened. And so he drank.

He tried to break free of the Amis’ orbit. He really did. Why should he limit himself to the friends of Floreal’s ancestors? There were many more people in Paris. He moved out of Joly’s apartment, and got his own flat.  When Grantaire wasn’t working, or drinking, or going to class, he wandered around Paris. He got to know the city, and all its secret streets, the best shops, and the most spirited inhabitants. But no matter how much he liked his new acquaintances that were scattered around the city, he didn’t like any of them as much as he genuinely liked the Amis, nor did he find them nearly as interesting.

And so he always found himself back at the Musain, sitting next to Joly and Bossuet, chatting with Feuilly, arm-wrestling Bahorel, and listening to Enjolras. Sometimes he wondered about Enjolras. After all, time travel was a thing. What other magic existed? Maybe Enjolras was part siren. Except instead of luring sailors to the sea, he lured students to revolution. Grantaire was determined to break the spell.

“You can’t be serious!” he scoffed in the middle of Enjolras’s latest tirade. “You think that the people of Paris will join you and fight with you?”

“Parisians have shown before that they are willing to fight for justice,” Enjolras said, tossing his head.

“Oh, right. The French Revolution. Because _that_ went well.”

“Perhaps they were a bit overzealous-”

“ _A bit overzealous_? They killed tens of thousands of innocent people!” Grantaire shot back. “And don’t give me freedom comes with a price bullshit. If the cost of freedom is the lives of the innocent, how are your precious people any better than the tyrants they abhor?”

“No one is saying the revolution was perfect. But if we learn from the mistakes of our ancestors, then we can do better. We _will_ be better.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” Grantaire said. “But people have been having revolution since the dawn of civilization. It’s a vicious cycle. No one will risk anything unless an issue is directly and negatively affecting them. And when they are finally mad enough to fight, they always go too far.”

Enjolras merely narrowed his eyes and launched into a counterargument, which Grantaire parried before reiterating his point. It was what they did, although sometimes Grantaire wanted to stop speaking reason, grab Enjolras by the shoulders, “ _Listen to me_!” No one ever listened to him. Instead of paying heed to Grantaire’s warnings, Enjolras was singing praises of the people of Paris, who were brave, who were righteous, who would be ready to fight when the time came.

It made Grantaire sick.  Enjolras was passionately defending the people who would leave him to die in just a few short years. Enjolras believed in his cause and the people so much he was positive of their inevitable victory. It broke Grantaire’s heart. So he took another sip, not missing the flicker of disappointment and contempt in Enjolras’s eyes.

He downed the bottle.

____

 

“Courfeyrac is bringing a new recruit to the meeting tonight,” Bossuet announced, sitting himself down next to Grantaire and helping himself to some wine.

“Oh?”

“Yes. A most peculiar fellow. I am the one who met him. So if he turns out to be useful to the cause, I should like all the credit. If he is not, then of course Courfeyrac is to blame.”

“How did you meet this fellow?”

“I saved his life,” Bossuet said solemnly. “And he in return saved mine.”

Joly gasped and clutched Bossuet’s arm. “Are you unwell?”

“It was in Blondeau’s class, the odious man.”

Grantaire stilled. He knew this story. Marius Pontmercy was absent from a particularly awful professor’s class. Bossuet replied ‘present’ on Marius’s behalf. But when the Professor Blondeau got to Bossuet’s name, Bossuet was crossed out, since he had already identified himself as Marius.

“-so I am now a free man. I saved and doomed Marius, as he is still on the path towards pursuing a legal career. And he saved me, by releasing me from that same awful path.”

Joly scowled at him. “I thought it was something serious.”

“What is more serious than a man’s soul?” Bahorel said, popping up out of nowhere. “Bossuet, my good man, I hear congratulations are an order.”

“Where did you come from?” Grantaire asked, bewildered.

“I was drawn to my brother,” Bahorel clasped Bossuet’s shoulder. “A drink, on me! Welcome to the society of students who know the truth about the tyranny of the law department. We are few, but growing. We must work together to educate our enchained brethren. Fear not, Enjolras. We will free you.”

Enjolras looked up. Grantaire wondered which was more effective in grabbing his attention: his name or the word, ‘free’.

“Pardon?”

“I said we’ll free you from the clutches of the law department.”

Enjolras just looked confused. “But I am studying it of my own volition.”

“Lies they feed you.”

“The best way to dismantle the current oppressive system and create a better one is to understand that which already exists. Is that not true, Combeferre?”

Combeferre chuckled and patted Enjolras gently on the back. “Poor Enjolras. I do believe you are being teased. Come, help me finish this pamphlet.”

If anything, Enjolras just looked _more_ confused that they could joke about something so serious, but he allowed Combeferre to distract him.

“Not to fret,” Bahorel said. “We’ll turn Courfeyrac away from his folly, and he will help convert Enjolras.”

“Speak of the devil,” Bossuet muttered as Courfeyrac bounded up the stairs, a young man in tow. _Marius._

“Greetings, friends,” Courfeyrac beamed. “I would like to introduce Marius Pontmercy.”

It was clear Marius did not understand why he was there, nor was he comfortable. He fidgeted with his hands. Enjolras cast Courfeyrac a questioning glance.

“A pupil,” he said simply. Enjolras nodded as if this made perfect sense, then he returned to his conversation with Combeferre.

Marius looked even more bewildered at Courfeyrac’s proclamation, but he allowed himself to be lead to a seat. He was quiet when Enjolras started the meeting. He peeked around the room through timid eyes, looking increasingly astonished as he listened to what the Amis had to say.

As Marius studied the Amis, Grantaire allowed himself to study Marius. He was fresh-faced, and handsome. And serious. So serious for his age. He was younger now, than he was in the few portraits Floreal had of him. Grantaire always thought, when he looked at the portraits, that Marius had seemed older than his age. It wasn’t that his features were overly mature, or that he was graying early. It had always been his eyes that troubled Grantaire. They seemed weary and haunted. The Marius that sat in front of him now didn’t have that. His eyes were wide and innocent- they belonged to a man who had seen too little of the world. The eyes in the portraits belonged to a man who had seen too much of it.

After the official part of the meeting ended, and the Amis began socializing, Courfeyrac made sure to introduce Marius to everyone. When it was time for Grantaire to be introduced, he felt suddenly nervous. He very much wanted Marius to like him. It shouldn’t matter- Floreal liked Grantaire, and it shouldn’t matter what her family thought. And it’s not like Floreal would even know if Marius didn’t like Grantaire. But still, Grantaire knew deep down, it would bother him if Marius instantly was disgusted by him.

“Marius, this is Grantaire, or Grand R as we have decided to call him.”

Marius let out a delighted chuckle at the pun, much to Grantaire’s relief.

“That’s clever!” Marius said, told Grantaire, smiling. He didn’t quite meet Grantaire’s eye, and it suddenly occurred to Grantaire that he wasn’t the only one who was nervous. Courfeyrac was the only friend Marius had at this point in his life, and he was meeting the other important people in Courfeyrac’s life. And Marius was a nervous wreck as it was. The poor boy must have been terrified to be there.

Grantaire patted Marius’s back. “Pleased to meet you.”

He said it with such sincerity that it was impossible to miss. Marius in return looked him in the eye and gave him a small but genuine smile.

____

 

Marius did not fit in as seamlessly as Grantaire, although he kept showing up to meetings. Poor Marius- everything that came out of any of the Amis’ mouth seemed to shock him. He was so shocked and horrified, he barely said a word. Grantaire wondered how Marius and Courfeyrac became such fast friends.  Marius was like a baby deer, a lamb, timid, and easily frightened. And Courfeyrac….Courfeyrac just threw a copy of the Touquet Charter into the fire.

“The charter metamorphosed into flame,” Combeferre mused philosophically.

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“Over-dramatic much?” Grantaire said to both of them.

Courfeyrac just laughed and plopped next to Combeferre to continue his argument. He seemed calmer now that he had burned the hated document, so he and Combeferre were able to have a somewhat civilized debate. Marius lingered back at his table, not bold enough to sit at the table while the men debated in detail. Perhaps he was afraid Courfeyrac would throw something else in the fire.

It would be the perfect opportunity for Grantaire to go over to him and get to know him better. So far, they had only exchanged pleasantries and bland small talk. Yet Grantaire resisted.

He annoyed himself with his reluctance. Meeting Marius and having a conversation with him…that was what he should do. So once he had an opportunity go back to the catacombs, he could have had a conversation with Floreal’s great, great, great, great grandfather, so when he went home, he could tell Floreal about it. He wanted to collect these stories. As an offering to her. An apology, whenever he came home. _I’m sorry for leaving._

And yet, he stayed put at his table. Because once he got to know Marius, had a few stories for Floreal, he had no more excuses. He would have to try harder to get home. And for reasons unknown to himself, he wasn’t ready for that yet. There was the National Guard between him and the way home, but if he was honest with himself, Grantaire hadn’t been pushing to get back to the catacombs, despite the fact that Bossuet and Joly said there might be opportunities. He hadn’t been pushing, because he hadn’t gotten a chance to get to know Marius yet. Or that was what he told himself.

And yet, Grantaire found himself wandering through the tables, avoiding Marius’s. He forced himself to continue past where Enjolras and Feuilly were animatedly discussing some cause or another. He would love nothing more than to sit down in the empty seat next to Enjolras, but Enjolras seemed happy and relaxed for once, and Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to ruin that. So instead, he sat himself down in his usual spot next to Bossuet and Joly, who were drinking with Bahorel.

It seemed Joly was thanking Bahorel profusely for suggesting he buy some awful leather pants that apparently did wonders for his and Musichetta’s relationship. Grantaire chuckled, before joining in the bawdy conversation. He had made the right decision. He could talk to Marius at some other time.

____

 

In retrospect, it was a mistake for Grantaire to not speak to Marius sooner. Marius stopped coming to the meetings after his now infamous Napoleon rant. Courfeyrac chided Combeferre for scaring away Marius, but Bahorel shushed him.

“Marius is a man. If three words from Combeferre can scare him away, then he was not of the right temperament to come to our meetings anyway.”

“He will calm down. Then he will come back,” Jehan told Courfeyrac kindly.

Eventually Marius would return, Grantaire knew. But first he had to fall in love with Cosette. So…maybe Grantaire should stall his non-existent efforts in getting home until he could see Marius again, and hear him talk about Cosette. Yes, that was what he would do. So he could go back to Floreal with details of her favorite love story.

In the meantime, he soaked up his friends’ company. They were joy personified, and Grantaire devoured their stories and laughter, knowing how he would miss it when he went back home. He loved Floreal, but never in his life had he known such people. He was determined to spend as much time with his friends as possible. And with Enjolras.

He didn’t dare consider Enjolras a friend. Enjolras was like the sun, and Grantaire a weed, greedily soaking up the passion and conviction Enjolras radiated. He would never again see anyone like Enjolras once he went home. He wasn’t sure that anyone else like Enjolras had ever or would ever exist. Of course, he had read about other famous revolutionary leaders. But he was convinced that if he were to meet any of them, they wouldn’t compare. If Enjolras was the sun, they would be like flickering candles. Or something like that. Grantaire took another swig of wine. Maybe he had had enough.

Still, Marius didn’t disappear completely from his life. Courfeyrac would sometimes come in with news of Pontmercying.

Courfeyrac sighed. “Marius is avoiding me.”

“Whatever for?” Joly asked, looking concerned.

“I tried to give him advice on how to woo the fairer sex.”

For a moment, it was dead silent, and then Bahorel burst into uproarious laughter.

“Courfeyrac, how _dare_ you do that and not invite us to watch!” Bossuet cried.

As Courfeyrac continued to update them on Marius’s comings and goings, he noted that Marius seemed distracted and wondered at it. Grantaire knew the root of Marius’s problems. He was bewitched by Cosette, although at this point, he probably didn’t even know her name.

It took Courfeyrac a little longer to get to the bottom of Marius’s oddness, but when he found out, he came into the next meeting, beaming.

“Marius is in love!” he crooned.

“It’s serious,” Jehan agreed. “We had breakfast with him this morning. Marius is in love. He is practically out of his mind after a single glance. It’s rather romantic.”

Grantaire snorted loudly.

“Nothing good comes from love at first sight,” he said, gesturing to himself grandly.

Bahorel leaned forward, laughing. “Have you a story then?”

“Not much of a story.”

“Oh, come off it!” Feuilly said.

Grantaire hesitated. It was rare of him to share any stories from his 21st century life with the Amis. There weren’t any rules against it that he knew. Then again, he didn’t know if there were any time travelling rules. It just seemed like he should avoid talking about his other life as much as possible. But it couldn’t really do any harm, and now Jehan was egging him on.

“My parents, alright? They were young when they met. They both went to watch Halley’s Comet. My father saw my mother and was smitten instantly. He told her that even with all the wonders in the sky that night, she was still the most beautiful thing he saw. They had a whirlwind courtship, got married and had me. But it wasn’t a happy marriage, in the end.”

“Well, if nothing else, their courtship produced you. So if all such courtships end up with giving the world more Grand R’s, I heartily endorse them,” Courfeyrac said, raising his glass. “To Marius and his mystery woman, whoever she is.”

“Hear hear,” Jehan said, toasting.

Grantaire shrugged, before toasting too. He didn’t usually believe in or endorse love at first sight.  His parents had fallen in love quickly, so when they fell out of love, that happened fast too. Life had a way of ruining fairy tales, but Marius and Cosette would be the exception.

“To Marius and his infatuation. If only Bahorel had been able to find him a better outfit to court his lady love with,” Grantaire said.

“Hear hear,” Bahorel said darkly. His eye hadn’t quite stopped twitching ever since Courfeyrac described Marius’s outfit a few weeks ago. ( _“I have just met Marius’s new hat and new coat, with Marius inside them. He was going to pass an examination, no doubt. He looked utterly stupid.”)_

They toasted to Marius, and that night, when Grantaire recorded the day in his journal, it was with a light heart.

____

 

“Surprise!”

Well, they weren’t wrong. Grantaire yelped and jumped backwards, nearly falling off the steps. He would have, but Joly and Bossuet each grabbed one of his arms, steadying him.  

“What is this?” Grantaire sputtered.

“What do you think?” Courfeyrac cried. “We are celebrating your birthday of course.”

His birthday. He had almost forgotten. It was nothing something he had cared about. Everyone who had ever lived had a birthday. People were the only animals who took something so ordinary and celebrated it like it was something special. But that’s what people did: they celebrated the mundane.

Looking around the room, he thought he might have to rethink his stance on birthdays. Maybe the real reason he never cared about his birthday was no one else did. No one but Floreal ever really thought him being born was something to go out of their way to celebrate. And okay, maybe it was still weird that human beings celebrated something so ordinary, but surrounded by the Amis, he thought it was also kind of nice.

There were drinks, of course. And food. The Amis had transformed their revolutionary headquarters into a respectable party area.

“And,” Joly said, practically bubbling with glee. “There’s something else!”

“What else could there possible b-”

Grantaire froze as his friends dramatically parted to reveal a wooden trunk that had previously been hidden behind them. He recognized it. There was no mistaking it- this was the trunk he had found in his and Floreal’s attic. The trunk with the R engraved on its side. He wanted to throw up. The warm, happy feeling he had felt growing in his stomach was replaced with a dreadful hollowness.

“Surprise!” Joly shouted again.

Courfeyrac began excitedly chattering. “Joly and Bossuet noticed your rooms were always in a state of disarray.”

“The price of being an artist,” Jehan intercut.

“Yes, yes,” Courfeyrac waved him off good-naturedly. “I understand that to maintain one’s reputation as an _artiste_ , one must live in a certain state of shambles, which we were reliably informed Grand R has managed astonishingly well. So we all pitched into acquire this contraption so you have no excuse now, Grantaire. You must live in a respectable mess.”

Grantaire realized they were waiting for him to respond. He wanted to turn and run. Back to the catacombs. Back through time. Back home.

“Thank you,” he said, forcing himself to smile at them. “This is…well…it was very thoughtful. Thank you. For preserving my reputation as a Romantic artist.”

Bahorel let out a booming laugh. “We’ve done it. We’ve shocked R speechless.”

The Amis laughed, luckily agreeing with Bahorel’s assessment. Good. Grantaire would let them think they had surprised him so much that they had for once managed to shut him up. He just needed a minute, because he felt the world collapsing on him. He sank down in a chair as his friends busied themselves in distributing food and drink among everyone. He had to wait a few minutes until everyone had broken off into small groups and were distracted enough so he could slip outside for a minute.

The trunk in the attic, despite his desperate hopes otherwise, was his. Was this his fate then? Was he to be stuck in the past long enough to witness that final barricade? Was it his destiny to watch his friends die? Someone did. Someone collected mementos of the Amis. They collected a few items, a handful of memories, and tucked them away in Grantaire’s trunk and left it for him and Floreal to find in 2015. He didn’t have the strength for such a task.

“Have we upset you?”

Grantaire looked up at the unexpected source of the query: Enjolras.

“No.”

“You’re out here by yourself,” Enjolras said.

“Yes, thank you Captain Obvious.”

“Was the trunk not a good gift? I’m sure we could get another one.”

“Jesus Christ, can’t you leave anything alone!” Grantaire snapped. He rubbed his temples. _I’m sorry, I’m upset about your impending death_ _and the fact that I will apparently witness it, and I need to be anywhere but here_. “I’m sorry. I’m just….I’m sorry.”

Enjolras blinked at him, before leaning against the wall, mimicking as best he could Grantaire’s pose. He didn’t quite have it- Enjolras wasn’t made for slouching. Grantaire appreciated the effort.

“You are upset and I prodded.” Enjolras studied him for a moment. “Would you like to be alone?”

If it were anyone else, Grantaire would say yes. But for some reason, he wanted Enjolras to stay with him. “No. I could use some company.”

Enjolras nodded, and turned his attention to the street. Grantaire wondered if he was trying to avoid overwhelming him again, or if he just didn’t know what to say. Either way, he was grateful. He didn’t want to talk at the moment. He might give something away.

“I don’t suppose you have a cigarette?” Grantaire asked after a moment. He would kill for a smoke, but Enjolras just shook his head. “Of course not. Well, I suppose I should be getting back inside anyway.”

“It’s your birthday. You should do exactly you please.”

“I never thought I’d get your endorsement to do exactly as I please.”

Enjolras huffed out a small laugh at that, and Grantaire felt a rush of joy at the sound. Joy was followed in quick succession by guilt. He didn’t want to question too closely why taking pleasure in making Enjolras laugh should make him instantly feel guilty.

But that wasn’t going to stop him from trying again.

____

 

“Sweets for the sweet?”

Enjolras cast Grantaire a waspish look. “That word has never been used to describe me before, and I would rather not start.”

“Never? Not even when you were a baby?”

“I was never a baby. I sprung fully formed from the ruins of the Bastille. An instrument for change.” If Enjolras thought sarcasm would deter Grantaire, he was sorely mistaken.

“A modern Aphrodite, appearing fully grown before the admiring masses.” Enjolras scrunched his nose. Grantaire paused. “No, that isn’t right. A modern Athena, sprung from the head of the Republic.”

“I would rather be compared to Athena than Aphrodite.”

“Of course you would. Being born ready for battle. A brave warrior, intelligent,” Grantaire leaned forward. “Virginal.”

Enjolras’s cheeks flushed. “If that’s all-”

“Of course that isn’t all. I brought you pastries, and I think you should eat them.” Enjolras hesitated.  “Don’t you like pastries?”

“There is no point in my liking pastries, as I will not buy them either way,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire laughed. “Why ever not?”

“Bread will sustain me just as well and is far cheaper. There are better things my money could be used for.”

“Like helping the poor and buying guns?”

“It is my money, and I will use it as I see fit.”

“As will I. I bought these pastries to share with you. Now you may choose not to eat them, but then I will declare you an ingrate for the rest of eternity.”

“Why are you buying gifts for me?” Enjolras squinted suspiciously at him.

“Because…” Grantaire tried to think of a good reason, and settled on the truth. “You should enjoy the world you are trying to save. While you’re still around to enjoy it, that is.”

“Always the voice of optimism,” Enjolras said, finally accepting a pastry from the small box Grantaire nudged at him.

Grantaire watched as Enjolras bit off a piece and did not miss the faint smile that formed as Enjolras savored the flavor.

“Excellent choice. That bakery makes some of the best palmiers in Paris.”

“And you’re an expert in Parisian bakeries?” Enjolras asked, finally granting Grantaire a full smile.

“Oh, I make it my business to be an expert in Parisian bakeries. And cafes. And restaurants. I am a connoisseur of all things pleasurable.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“You know, if you ever need to take a break from your studies, I can show you.”

Enjolras scoffed. “I fear you would end up taking me to a brothel.”

“I value my life too much to try _that_. And anyway, I suppose the brothels are my one blind spot when it comes to knowing the best of Paris.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looked mildly surprised, but then seemed to realize that was rude, so he took another bite of his pastry.

It was true- Grantaire didn’t visit the brothels. He was after all a married man. His wife might not have been born yet, but Grantaire never for a moment thought of being anything but faithful to her.

Of course, he couldn’t very well _tell_ the Amis he was married. It would raise too many questions. So he instead chimed in with their boasting of romantic conquests. He met them story for story. He would feel bad for lying, except his stories were obviously just that- stories. Grantaire would never get anything done if he slept with all the people he claimed to sleep with. And he wasn’t exactly handsome. Someone with his face would never seduce half of Paris as he claimed to do. That was probably why Enjolras was surprised he never went to the brothels.

“What are you working on, anyway, that’s so much more interesting than the outside world?”

Enjolras looked relieved at the opportunity to change the subject.

“I’m revising a pamphlet we’re going to print.”

“Ah,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras finished his pastry and cast Grantaire a side-long look. “Would you like to read it?”

Gift for gift. Grantaire gave Enjolras a taste of the sweeter things in life and Enjolras was offering him a taste of his vision for the world.

“Best not.”

Enjolras deflated. “Why?”

“Because we were having a nice conversation for once.” Grantaire said. “Don’t look so put-out. Have another pastry.”

And Enjolras did- albeit begrudgingly. Still, Grantaire counted it as a victory. It was nice, the two of them sitting there, quietly sharing the pastries. Perhaps they could have this more often, if only Grantaire could learn to shut up.

That was impossible- he couldn’t bite his tongue for very long. But he decided to extend this moment for as long as he could, and was on his best behavior at the meeting when it eventually started. This caused a few concerned looks from his friends, but Grantaire determinedly did not interrupt or contradict Enjolras, much as he wanted to.

Instead, he let his mind wander, which was a dangerous thing to do. It was hard enough as it was. If the Amis had only been born later...How different Grantaire’s life would have been if he had known them growing up. How they would have thrived in his time. He imagined Combeferre, who would take full advantage of the easy access to knowledge the internet could bring him. Courfeyrac would have been a master at social media. He probably would be a mini-celebrity for Vines or Tweets or a vlog or some combination of the three.

Jehan would have been a king of slam poetry, wowing crowds while rocking some truly hideous sweaters. He would probably have some amazing tattoos that Grantaire could admire.

Feuilly could have been protected by social services and had someone to look out for him. Bahorel would be an undisputed MMA champion. Bossuet and Joly would have been the biggest comic book nerds. Grantaire pictured them dragging him to midnight premieres of superhero movies in full cosplay. Afterwards, the three of them could grab a drink and smoke a blunt and revel in good adaptations, or complain about the bad.

And Enjolras. Oh, Enjolras. How he would have taken the world by a storm. That voice. His beautiful voice, his passion….with the combination of mass media and social media, his voice would have been amplified a million times, and his words would catch on like wildfire.

In another life, in another time, they could have had the stories they deserved.

He wanted them to know how futile it was, all of it. He couldn’t change the world, nor could they, because if history taught him anything, the world was trapped in an eternal cycle of death and misery. Their optimism wasn’t infectious, it was depressing.

____

 

Someone was banging on Grantaire’s door. He glanced at his calendar. July 27, 1830. He repressed a sigh as he shuffled to the door. Even if he didn’t know what was about to happen, the mood in the city had shifted in the past month. It was obvious what was coming to head, and now one of his friends was here to drag Grantaire into the melee.

“What?”

“Come on! There’s rioting in the streets!” Courfeyrac said, bursting into Grantaire’s apartment.

“I think the normal reaction when there’s rioting is to stay inside and lock the doors.”

“There’s no time for jokes, R. It’s happening. The people are rising! It’s time!”

Grantaire sighed. “Can I at least put on pants before joining you?”

“You can do more than that. You can pick up the ammunition we stashed in Jehan’s studio and meet me by the garden we went to to celebrate passing our exams last semester. You remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Good. Enjolras was afraid we wouldn’t have enough, and I would go, only I have to find Feuilly.”

“I’ll do it.”

Courfeyrac clasped Grantaire’s back. “Thank you, my friend. By the time we’re done, we’ll be looking at a very new world!”

It didn’t take long for Grantaire to get dressed and get the ammunition. He was hurrying through the streets, using shortcuts to avoid where the violence was heaviest, when he saw it. The street he had first emerged from, all those nights ago with Joly and Bossuet. Here was the entrance to the catacombs where he had come from. He knew he could find his way back to that chamber, that wonderful, awful chamber that forever altered his life. And the National Guards wouldn’t be there. They were too busy repressing a rebellion.

Grantaire took a step towards the entrance. This was the best chance he would get for a very long time to go back home to Floreal. It might be his only chance.

He took another step forward, but was suddenly aware of the weight of the ammunition in his pocket. Enjolras needed him.

As he raced to meet his friends, he wondered if this was some cruel joke the universe was playing on him.

In the end, they barely needed the ammunition. There was fighting, there were barricades, but for the most part, their opponents either ran away, or joined the fight. The three glorious days passed by in a blur for Grantaire. Looking back, he remembered a few skirmishes. He remembered Joly and Bossuet leading them in song as they marched through the streets. He remembered Combeferre, Jehan, and Feuilly being some of the first to protect art in the Louvre from looters. He remembered Bahorel actually restraining himself from inciting violence, and Courfeyrac talking a few neutral citizens into joining them. And he remembered Enjolras.

One particular image was stuck in his brain. He kept replaying that moment.

Enjolras, a lone figure on the barricade. He seized the flag with one hand, and planted it defiantly. Grantaire didn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or any higher powers, but if there was one, it was watching over Enjolras. Because at that moment, the sun broke through the clouds and beamed down on him, enveloping him in a soft glow. He looked like an angel. Beautiful and ethereal. There was a hint of danger there too, as if those that opposed him would open themselves to divine retribution. Grantaire’s heart stopped.

That was the moment the few National Guardsman who were still fighting them threw down their weapons and joined the rebels. They too must have seen what Grantaire saw, and refused to fight. Within three days the rebellion was over, and a joyous mood permeated Paris.

The Amis were not exempt. They went to the Musain to celebrate. Grantaire had celebrated many occasions with them- end of exams, birthdays, holidays. None of them compared to this.

“Yes, congratulations, my friends. We’ve won this one. Might as well drink up,” Grantaire said.

He was surprised when Enjolras approached his table. He assumed Enjolras was going to tell him off for his ‘this one’ comment, but instead, Enjolras beamed at him.

He grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders. “You came!” he said.

“Of course. Free booze,” Grantaire said.

“ _No_. I meant you came to the barricade. You came and helped.”

“That was a one-time thing. Don’t count on me for the next one,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras just laughed. “The people prevailed. Not even you and your cynicism will dampen today. You _came_.”

Any dirty jokes that were forming in Grantaire’s mind died when Enjolras squeezed him closer and bestowed a kiss on his forehead. It was a peck, one of the more chaste kisses Grantaire had received, but his heart stuttered. It was unfair how such a simple thing threw Grantaire out of sorts while Enjolras just smiled at him once more, then continued on his way.

Grantaire tried to shake off his shock and join in the revelries. He kept his distance from Enjolras, craving more, but not daring to seek it. Instead, he watched as Joly drank Bahorel under the table as Courfeyrac and Jehan tried to get everyone in the bar to join in a sing along.

Only Combeferre seemed reserved. He sat at a back table. He didn’t drink, he didn’t join in conversation. If anyone called out to him, he just nodded, before settling back into his reverie. Perhaps he was shaken by what he had seen. While they had been spared the worst of the battle, Combeferre was not a violent man.

Grantaire intended to walk past him, maybe pat him on the back once or twice reassuringly, but then he meant to be on his way. To his surprise, Combeferre’s hand shot out and caught him by the wrist.

“What did you mean?”

“I’m sorry?” Grantaire said.

Combeferre looked like he already regretted his rash question. But it was out there now, and Combeferre wasn’t the sort to turn back. “What did you mean when you said we won ‘this one’?”

Grantaire stilled, before cracking a grin. “Combeferre, I’m drunk.”

“You’ve been drunker.”

He shrugged in response. “Well, look at history. It’s never this easy, and tyranny is never done. There’ll be more fights.” He should have just said that instead of using the drunk excuse.

Combeferre nodded, but still seemed troubled.

“Combeferre….it’ll be…” Grantaire paused. He couldn’t say it would be fine. He didn’t like lying to his friends any more than he had to. So instead, “Are you okay?”

“I just…perhaps _I’m_ drunk,” Combeferre muttered.

“And why do you say that?”

“You’re a conundrum, Rene Grantaire,” Combeferre said. “You don’t belong here, do you?”

Grantaire felt a stab of ice in his heart. Panic. He hoped it didn’t show in his face. He was getting good at lying. “That’s awfully mean, Combeferre. I might not exude revolutionary fervor, but I was there with you all. I fought alongside you.”

“That’s not what I meant, and I think you know that. We are all brothers now, bonded by battle. But the fact remains that you are out of place here.” Combeferre replied quietly.

The silence between them reminded Grantaire of a shootout- each man watching the other for the first sign of movement. Grantaire blinked. Combeferre did not.

“I don’t know what you mean, Combeferre. It must be as you said. You’re drunk. We’ll speak no more about it.”

He wretched his arm free from Combeferre’s grip, and without another word to anyone, stalked out of the Musain.

____

 

He was expecting the knock on the door later that night.

“It’s open.”

Combeferre slipped in. “I’m sorry.”

“For saying I don’t belong?”

“For prodding. Your secrets are your own,” he said, gently shutting the door.

“I don’t have any secrets.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Grantaire.”

“Of course, I forgot I’m talking to a human lie detector.”

Combeferre sat down across from Grantaire pointedly. “It’s phrases like that that betray you. I have never heard of a lie detector before.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry my colloquialisms don’t meet your approval.”

“It’s the way you speak of things not as they are.  Like you expect everything to be just a little different. You mention street names that do not exist-”

“Oh, so you’re an expert on Paris now?”

“Halley’s Comet,” Combeferre said.

“Now who’s not making sense?”

“You said your parents met when they went to observe Halley’s Comet.”

“So what?”

“Halley’s Comet was last seen in 1759. It will not come again until 1835. I already have the projected week of its arrival marked as ‘unavailable’ in my calendar as I fully intend to see it.”

Grantaire felt his mouth go dry. “I was embellishing to make a good story. Regular star gazing is a bit boring, isn’t it? I just chose the first impressive sounding astronomy related event I could think of. That was me talking out of my ass, as usual, Combeferre.”

“Was it.” Combeferre said flatly.

Grantaire forced himself to laugh. “Is this another one of those Combeferre things? You speak of astronomy, but do you have astrology on your mind? Is this about your preoccupation with the supernatural? Do you think me some otherworldly entity? I can assure you, I’m not a ghost,” Grantaire said teasingly. _You are_.

Of course, Combeferre wasn’t the type to be embarrassed by mockery. He stared evenly at Grantaire. “I do not believe you are a ghost. Merely that there is more to you than you claim. If you do not wish to share, that is your prerogative, I merely wanted to offer my ear if you so desired it. I am sorry for prodding if it has made you uncomfortable. I suppose I got carried away by my own curiosity.”

He stood up to leave. This time Grantaire stopped him with his hand. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going mad.”

“You seem no more or less mad than any other man.”

“You think?” Grantaire scoffed. “Perhaps I can change your mind. Would you like me to tell you your future, Mathieu Combeferre?”

A flicker of something passed behind Combeferre’s eyes. If Grantaire hazarded to name it, he would call it triumph.

“And how would you be able to tell me my future?”

“As you said, I don’t belong. I’m a traveler from somewhere far off.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say he was from the future. Even if Combeferre would believe him- and Grantaire was certain he would, that he already guessed- he couldn’t bring himself to say explicitly something so unfathomable, that sometimes he thought he was in a dream.

Luckily, Combeferre simply nodded. “I see.” And he probably did. He pinched the bridge of his nose before finally saying. “I would know your tale, if you wish to tell it. But I would not know my own future. That would drive _me_ mad.”

“You have restraint many men would envy,” Grantaire said.

Combeferre clasped Grantaire’s shoulder. “Part of the joy of living derives from discovery. If you could, would you know your fate?”

“I have guessed it.”

“As I have guessed mine,” Combeferre said, a hint of heaviness in his voice. “But certainty would deprive me of hope. And what is life without hope?”

He left not long after that. What else was there to say between them? Grantaire almost wished Combeferre asked him to tell his future. But Combeferre was right. Life without hope was hard. It was selfish of Grantaire to want to tell Combeferre everything simply to unburden himself. How he wished he could unburden himself. He was drowning in thoughts and guilt.

He padded over to his trunk. He opened a secret compartment him himself had added, pulling out his wedding band. Grantaire was very proud of the compartment. It had taken a bit of clever woodworking, but now he had somewhere he could stash things like his wedding ring that would raise too many questions. Like the obvious _where’s your wife_? He sank onto his bed, turning over the ring, deep in thought, letting his guilty conscience take over.

He could have gone to Floreal. He could have gone to her, and eased her worries. (How long had it been, for her, since he had gone missing?) But instead of returning home to his wife, he had chosen his friends and a doomed cause.

Adding to his crimes, was one of the reasons he had stayed. Of course, part of it was he loved the Amis. They were his friends, they were his brothers. Except for one.

Grantaire dropped his ring like it had scorched him. No, he hadn’t cheated on Floreal, not in deed. But he had betrayed her with his feelings for another. Because now he finally had to confront that thing he had been dancing around for months now. Years, if he was being honest with himself.

He admired Enjolras. He venerated him. He loved him.

How long he had loved him, Grantaire didn’t know. Perhaps from the moment he laid eyes on him, or the first time he had heard him speak. He had sensed something there, since the beginning, but shunned those feelings. But the moment he saw Enjolras in all his defiant beauty at the barricade, Grantaire’s fate was sealed. He could deny it no longer. It was like a dam bursting through, drowning Grantaire.

His heart burned, his feelings stronger for having been denied for so long. This was love.

It wasn’t a love like he had ever felt before. Loving Floreal was like spending a sunny afternoon in the park. Warm, gentle, relaxing. Loving Enjolras was like staring at a solar eclipse. You knew you were seeing something extraordinary, but fleeting. And it hurt if you looked for too long.

Grantaire shut his eyes and tried to go to sleep. It was impossible. Enjolras’s visage was burned into his retinas, his speeches seared into Grantaire’s mind, his existence engulfing Grantaire’s very being. There was no going home for Grantaire, not until the bitter end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a life lesson. If you get cocky and say "I'll have this fic posted in a week", the universe will laugh at you. It will laugh at you, then knock you over, then laugh some more. It'll do things like mess with your computer, multiple times. And give you a lot of other work/projects/things you need to get done. And on top of it, it'll drain you of your energy, so it's hard for you to get stuff done that you have to do, let alone fun things like fic. 
> 
> Anyway, that's my long, rambly way of saying I'm so sorry it took me so long to upload the next chapter of this. Thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Also: sorry if any of you wanted a more detailed barricade of 1830. Fear not, there will be another barricade next chapter. And that one will be explored in more detail. A lot more detail. 
> 
> As always, feedback is always much appreciated. If you're on Tumblr, I'm babesatthebarricade. Merci!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed. I wanted to get all this posted by Barricade day, but I don't think that'll happen. Hopefully I'll get this up within the next week or so. Publishing this piece also marks (hopefully) the end of a long writer's block, so I'll get some happy fics up soon too. 
> 
> I'm at babesatthebarricade if you want to talk. Title is from Bastille's "Poet", since apparently I just steal their song lyrics for my titles.


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